Your
expression soft
in the morning, happy to see me
(for once)
at peace with you. Your cool
hand closing on the grip
of the cycle you sold
before we met, knowing
you could not stop in time.
And the way you explain
seasons, the water, things
I already know. How
did you admit me,
how does the change take hold?

Slowly, I think, as my eyes
adjust to the morning light,
your face, or is it moving
blurred as the stop sign,
easy to miss?